Made sense to him, gist of it anyhow. Night riding made him feel he was capable of doing things that seemed out of reach in the daylight. And it’d saved him from cracking up after what happened to Annalisa, kept him going since.
One thing that hadn’t been in the article was the sheer pleasure you got from night riding. Even made him hot sometimes, on warm, sweet-smelling nights, like that first time he’d made love with Annalisa. Major highways, two-laners, backcountry roads, unpaved mountain tracks—didn’t matter which kind, only that he was part of a missile like a huge lighted cock splitting the night, holding it apart as if it were two black thighs, penetrating it, taking it for his own.
First date he’d had with Annalisa, he’d tried to explain some of that to her. Not the cock part, the way night riding made him feel. Two months free of Fort Huachuca’s motor pool, back in Denver with a brand-new job at Miller Freight Lines, met her when he stopped in at Pop Foster’s grocery store and finally talked her into going out with him, two of them in his car heading up to Boulder to this club he knew about—and she put her head back and laughed when he told her about night riding. Hadn’t bothered him. God, no. Hearing her laugh like that, with her head back and her throat so long and white, that was when he knew for sure he was in love with her. That very second.
So he’d said all right, I’ll prove it to you. And he had. Started that night, and before long she wasn’t only convinced, she was a night rider herself. Some of the rides they’d taken together … man! Before and after they were married. Just one of the things he loved about her. Not only her becoming a night rider like him, her being willing to try new things, accept him for what he was and join right in, no complaints or hassles or attempts to change him.
Annalisa, Annalisa … tires murmuring her name again in the light-spattered dark. Tears in his eyes all of a sudden. All the memories, and wanting to be with her so much he could hardly stand the loneliness.
Someday it’ll be the way it used to be, he thought, and said the one word, “Someday,” out loud. New nights, thousands of new nights, Nick and Annalisa rushing through the darkness together, safe and secure in the one place where nobody nobody nobody could ever hurt them again.
4
In the darkness of their bedroom, Hallie’s arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, her breath hot and moist in his ear, she whispered, “Cam, oh … jockey… jockey…”
He felt the muscles in his back stiffen. It was the only thing, with slight variations, that she ever said to him while they were making love. She uttered sounds, little moans and purrs, and he could always tell when she had an orgasm by the long, low, sighing hum that came from her throat. But she was not a bed talker. No urgings, no endearments, no love or sex words of any kind. She never even said his name except as part of that damn jockey reference.
Man was a jockey,
He taught me how to ride,
Said good down the middle,
Better easin’ round the side.
An old blues refrain, she’d told him once, long ago. A product of her college days at Long Beach State, like the Dorothy Parker verse she’d quoted earlier, except that this one hadn’t been learned in either a classroom or polite company. It sounded African American to him, its roots in Storyville or Chicago’s South Side jazz clubs, but she’d said no, she’d never had a black lover. It didn’t matter to him, one way or the other, any more than it mattered that she hadn’t been a virgin the first time they slept together. How many women of twenty-one were inexperienced in the mid-eighties, after all? The first time she sang the little blues refrain to him, at some now-forgotten point between their first sexual encounter and their marriage a few months later, he’d found it funny. So she’d sung it again, off and on when they were in bed, and somehow, somewhere during the past thirteen years, it had evolved into a shorthand signal whenever he was too excited or too distracted or too tired to pay proper attention to her needs and his pacing. Slow down, Cam, don’t be in such a hurry. Make it last, make it good for both of us. But she’d never say those words, just come right out and tell him to slow down, make it last. She’d never say, Don’t go so fast, honey. She’d never say, Quit humping like Brer Rabbit. All she’d ever say was—
“Jockey… jockey, Cam …”
Tonight the words were like a worm wriggling through his pleasure, spoiling it by degrees. They made him feel as though he wasn’t a husband or a lover but somebody who was providing an impersonal service, like a TV repairman or a carpet cleaner or a plumber hired to flush out the pipes. The Cameron Gallagher Stud Service. Good enough down the middle, but the poor dolt still had to be coaxed into easin’ round the side.
Well, the hell with that tonight. He increased rather than slowed his rhythm, climaxed almost immediately, and heard, instead of the long, low, sighing hum, a disappointed little whimper of protest. Bad Cam. Bad jockey that couldn’t learn how to ride.
Usually he remained joined with her for a while afterward, to rest and cuddle, but not this time; he lifted away from her, flopped over on his back. She didn’t try to hold him. Didn’t have anything to say, either. Waiting for him to apologize for his bad ride. How many jockeys at Bay Meadows or Tanforan issued apologies? How many plumbers said they were sorry for one of their bad screws?
He lay staring into the darkness. And as his breathing gentled, so did his thoughts—and he began to feel ashamed of himself. Selfish and petty. It wasn’t Hallie’s fault. Stupid, cruel to blame her. The jockey thing, all the rest of what he’d been thinking, just an excuse to go ahead and do what the nasty, perverse part of him wanted to do—have an affair with Jenna Bailey.
He moved close to her again, touched her hand, and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby. I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight.”
“It’s all right,” she said, but her tone said she was hurt. She had a right to be hurt. Another wound, another empty apology. “Let’s not talk, okay? Let’s just go to sleep.”
She put on her nightgown, rolled away to the far side of the bed. And he lay there, wide awake, trying to shut down the furious swirl of his thoughts. It was as if there was a cancer growing inside him, a genetic cancer of the soul. Rose’s Blight. Old Ma Melanoma. He’d been trying to deny it for twenty-five years, one of his last pathetic conceits, and all the while it had been metastasizing until now he could see it for exactly what it was. You can’t deny what you can look straight in its pestilent eye.
Cameron Gallagher was his mother’s son. Or would be if he went to bed with Jenna Bailey.
Terminally.
5
Highway sign ahead:
SANTA ROSA 15
LOS ALEGRES 28
Names were vaguely familiar. Been here before? Probably. Wasn’t much of California he hadn’t covered, except for the northern and eastern mountain areas where not too many people lived. He’d get to them, too, sooner or later.
Late now. Or early. Four A.M, give or take a few minutes. He knew that because of the way the darkness looked. Gotten so he could judge the subtle differences in the night sky—positions of moon and stars on clear nights, but he could read cloudy nights just as well. Never been off by more than half an hour. Another good thing about being a night rider.
Santa Rosa, Los Alegres—towns somewhere north of San Francisco. Not too far, fifty or sixty miles. Keep on going into the city, it’d be first light by the time he found a place to sleep, Golden Gate Park or out along the beach. He remembered Frisco, all right. Not a good place for daylight sleeping in your car. Cops were liable to hassle you. Or kids, homeless people, junkies, street punks. Besides, he’d given the city a pretty thorough canvass the last time. Job he’d had just before he went there, driving for a supply outfit near Sacramento, paid well, and he’d had enough cash to rent a room for a week in a South of Market fleabag. Hadn’t bought him a thing. Half the people he showed the sketch to wouldn’t even look at it. Big cities were all like that, even Denver. Seemed like nobody wanted to help, nobody cared—they all ha
d too many troubles of their own.
He couldn’t remember anything about Santa Rosa or Los Alegres, so maybe he’d missed them. So many towns … you just couldn’t cover them all or keep track of them all. Easier in the beginning, when it’d just been the Denver area and then the rest of Colorado. But the farther he traveled, the more he went back to recanvass territory he’d gone over before, the harder it got. Hard to remember, even, all the towns he’d covered the last time through Colorado. Sometimes it seemed he’d been in most of the cities and towns and wide spots west of the Rockies, but he knew that couldn’t be right. Half, maybe, and maybe a lot less than half. So many had the same name or ones that sounded the same—how could anybody keep them all straight in his head?
Getting tired. Better put an end to this ride pretty soon. Motels along the highway here—Motel 8 up there on the right—but he couldn’t afford to waste any of the cash he had left on a motel. Homeless shelter or rescue mission or a few hours in the car, and he’d pretty much given up on shelters and missions for overnight stays. Took time to find one, usually the beds were all full, and anyway he didn’t like the atmosphere. Despair and hopelessness hung and crawled in every one. He wasn’t homeless, that was the thing. Not the way the others in those places were. Didn’t have a steady job or the apartment in Aurora anymore, but he did have Mom and Pop Foster’s house to stay in when he went home. And Annalisa to go home to. Options and a future—hardly anybody in the shelters and missions had either one.
Exit coming up. Find a park or country road or shopping center with a spread-out parking lot, some quiet place where he could hole up for a few hours without being hassled. Then he’d see what tomorrow, a new day, had in store for him.
He flipped on his turn signal, swung into the far lane and then the exit lane. Not thinking anymore by then. Just driving and looking for a place to sleep.
6
Cam’s first incoming call at the office Thursday morning was from Jenna.
Strictly business, he warned himself when he heard her voice. Keep it that way even if she doesn’t. He said, “Good morning, Jenna. How’re things at Fenwood Creek?”
“Just fine. You sound a little flat this morning, Cam. Anything wrong?”
“Not a thing,” he lied. “I’m still trying to jump-start the day.”
“You mean the drive over from Los Alegres doesn’t do it for you?”
“Most days. What can I do for you?”
“Any number of things,” she said. The dual meaning was plain enough and no doubt intentional; she had never made any secret of her attraction to him or her availability. No pretense, no b.s.—that was Jenna. He let the comment pass, waiting, and at length she said, “Right now I’ll settle for an update on our BATF federal label approvals.”
“We should have them by now. I’ll check with Maureen.”
“I can hold, or do you want to call back?”
“Better let me call you back.”
“I’ll be here. Don’t take too long.”
He cradled the receiver, went out and down the hall to Maureen Stannard’s office. Maureen, fifty, quiet and efficient, was both a friend and his good right hand. She’d been the first person he hired when he started Paloma Wine Systems eight years ago. Now she supervised most of the company’s compliance services, domestic and foreign, for three dozen of the Paloma, Napa, and Alexander Valleys’ wineries—business licensing, label registration, price posting, sales solicitor permits, federal label approvals, vintage and price changes. Her supervision allowed him to concentrate on the marketing and distributing end.
The BATF approval for Fenwood Creek’s new labels was just in; Maureen said a copy would go out to Jenna later today. Then, “Why didn’t she call me about it? Or did you and the lady have something else to discuss?”
“That was all she wanted.”
“No other kind of approval?”
“I don’t … what does that mean?”
“Do I really have to explain it to you?”
“No, but you can explain why you don’t like Jenna.”
“The same reason I don’t like mountain lions.”
“Is that what you think she is? Predatory?”
“Give her half a chance,” Maureen said, “she’ll eat you alive and purr like hell afterward.”
“Come on, she’s not like that.”
“Isn’t she?”
“No. Anyway, I don’t intend to let her get close enough to find out.”
Maureen gave him a slantwise look over the top of her glasses. “I hope not,” she said.
He went to the men’s room to take a couple of Advil, then returned to his desk and sat staring out through the window at the vineyards stretching away behind the office and warehouse buildings. Is it that obvious? he thought. Horns sprouting already? Three drop-in visits from Jenna this month, the lunch last week, half a dozen phone calls—it had the look and feel of a budding affair, all right, especially to someone as perceptive as Maureen. But Maureen knew him well enough to know that he loved his wife, didn’t have a roving eye, and didn’t play around—that he hadn’t succumbed yet. Reacting to vibes from Jenna, misinterpreting them as predatory, and warning him off.
Still, he wondered if Maureen knew something about Fenwood Creek’s product manager that he didn’t know. Rumor, gossip … she lived in the Paloma Valley, was hooked in to the upper echelons of local society. But for that matter, so was he, by the nature of the business. Wine was the valley’s lifeblood, and he was privy to just about everything that went on in or was connected with the industry, whether he wanted to be or not. He’d heard nothing particularly negative about Jenna in the three years she’d been here. Sure, she liked men and was reputed to have had several affairs, including one with Toby Charbonneau, heir apparent to the Charbonneau Cellars combine and “a hard-on lugging a man around with it,” as a Charbonneau sales rep had once characterized him. Cam played golf with Toby once a month; if there had been anything predatory about her, Toby would’ve related it. He was anything but reticent about the good and bad points of his conquests.
The hell with it, Cam thought. The problem here isn’t Maureen’s, or even Jenna’s. It’s mine.
He wondered if he ought to make an appointment to see Beloit again. Dr. Randolph Beloit, M.D., Paloma County’s preeminent psychoanalyst. It had been seven months since his last session, and before that his visits had been sporadic for nearly a year. Too many demands on his time—that was the official excuse. But the fact was, the good doctor rubbed him the wrong way. Aloof, supercilious, secure in his own importance. Beloit had helped him for a while, but there was only so much insight and direction a shrink could provide. Point of diminishing returns. Now, though, he might be a worthwhile option again. Who else but Beloit could he talk to about Jenna?
What he really wanted to do was to get away. From work, from temptation, from everybody and everything except Hallie. Just the two of them on a two- or three-week cruise on the Hallie Too. The twenty-seven-foot Skagit Orca XLC he’d bought new in April was specifically designed for the rugged waters of the Pacific; the shakedown cruise he and Hallie and the girls had taken to San Diego in June had been one of the best times he’d ever had. He’d always enjoyed boating; it had been Uncle Frank’s favorite pastime, so he’d grown up around small boats, owned two himself before the Hallie Too. But they’d been runabouts, and he’d never gone farther in them than San Francisco Bay. Ocean cruising was a whole new exciting world. There was something about being out at sea, alone except for the people he loved, no pressures or outside influences, that opened him up and cleaned him out and filled him back up with peace and well-being. Nightmare and memory hadn’t bothered him out there. Rose and his other demons were landlocked.
But a cruise now was out of the question. Wrong time of year for ocean travel in a small boat, especially with the weather an iffy proposition these days; and one of the busiest times for PWS, with the fall harvest just over and announcements and promotion for new releases, incr
eased sales and distribution for the upcoming holiday season. Hallie was committed to her volunteer work at the senior center, too. And they could neither take Leah and Shannon out of school nor turn them over to somebody else for a lengthy supervision; Aunt Ida was too old and crotchety and unreliable, and asking the Edmondses or any of their other friends was too much of an imposition. He’d have to be content, as long as the weather cooperated, with weekend day trips down to the Bay and out through the Gate. Any extended cruising would have to wait until next spring at the earliest, and probably until well into the summer if El Niño produced another long, wet winter as was being predicted.
Winter. He’d always hated it, even before the night of January 4, 1974. Dark, wet, cold. Bleak days and long nights. His mood swings and bouts of depression were always worse during the winter months.
Abruptly he swiveled away from the window. Winter was still on his mind when he picked up the phone and called Fenwood Creek.
Jenna’s voice purred in his ear. He relayed word of the BATF approval. Then he said, “Anything else I can do for you, Jenna?” He didn’t realize the suggestiveness of the phrasing until after the words were out. Or maybe the perverse part of him had done it deliberately.
Nothing but the Night Page 2